Darcy and Fitzwilliam: A Tale of a Gentleman and an Officer

He closed the door and went immediately to the desk to take up a large stack of letters waiting for him, turning up the lamp light to read them. There was correspondence from the War Department, from Wellington, from his father. All demanded his immediate attention, all were questioning his whereabouts for the past month, all had their own anxieties, their own requests of him.

“Are you coming to bed soon, Richard?” Amanda sat on the edge of the bed, watching him, seeing the concern in his eyes, or the humor, or the aggravation, depending upon whose letter he was reading. Her heart calmed suddenly when she realized there was one good thing to come of all this tragedy. At least he would be safe. At least now he would not be made to sacrifice so much.

“In a moment, dear.” He pulled his chair out and sat, taking up his pen to give his response to the more urgent of the letters.

Amanda retrieved his clothes still lying where he had dropped them. She folded them and placed them neatly onto the chair. She waited and watched for her husband to come to bed, refusing to sleep this last night.

***

There were only a few hours until dawn when he finally pulled the covers back. Although a fire blazed, the room felt damp and cold. Amanda’s gentle fingers touched his mouth.

“I thought you were asleep already, Amanda. You were so tired. Why don’t you try to rest?”

Instead she reached for him, pulled him down, began to kiss his neck, his ear, and then began to nip at his shoulder, her hand moving slowly down his chest and stomach.

His breathing stopped. Concern fought with lust as he gathered her tightly into his embrace. “Amanda, you’re trembling.” His voice sounded rough. She had been through so much, and this boldness was very unlike her. He smoothed the hair from her face, sighing and confused. She had so many different moods, this new wife of his, with so many mercurial emotions concerning sex that they baffled him. Sometimes, when she seemed the most amorous, it was actually just a plea for comforting. Sometimes it was simply from insecurity, sometimes lust. There were preferences for how and where, preferring curtains pulled tightly and total darkness, clean sheets, a tidy room. Certain positions took a little coaxing, but with enough prior notice could be accommodated.

On the other hand, he knew that men needed absolutely no excuse for sex nor did they care a whit where or when or how. It was all to the good and very basic.

Her hand continued its achingly slow descent.

The South of France saluted.

Responding immediately, Fitzwilliam moved her body beneath his, gently drawing her long, silky legs about his waist. He grasped her bottom, and his breathing quickly turned to panting. She whispered his name over and over, reverently, like a prayer between kisses that rapidly became fierce and savage and hungry.

He rose up on his elbows to take some of his weight from her, but she urgently shook her head. “Come back,” she whispered.

“Amanda,” he said hoarsely, “I’m too big… the baby. I’ll smother you both. Let me at least support myself a little.”

She grabbed at him, clutching and pulling until his beautiful mouth was again on hers, and then he was inside her again and carefully pressing her deeply, rhythmically into the bed, but she wanted to feel covered, protected, possessed. She grabbed at him desperately, moving her hips until it rendered him helpless and unthinking, and he soon forgot his much larger size and weight, forgot her delicate condition, forgot the boy and nurse in the next room, forgot that he was a guest in his cousin’s home or that there were innocent people living in respectable homes outside their window. He growled and yelled, and his body soon trembled its release. Finally, they lay there, breathing as one.

It was several moments before he raised himself onto an elbow to gaze down in the moonlight at her, a look of stunned appreciation on his face. “Good God, woman,” he whispered. “You’ll have me burst into flames one of these days.” He smoothed some hair from her face and kissed her nose then laughed softly. “I don’t know why I am bothering to whisper, I’m certain shutters are being slammed all over Mayfair from the racket we just made.”

Her fingers caressed his face, fingers tracing each line, each crevice, while she skimmed her hand across the scar on his jaw and she smiled briefly at the memory of their lovemaking.

“Amanda, stop,” he said gently, capturing her hand. “You’re touching me like I’m going to disappear. I am not, you know.” He tried to laugh it off and kissed her forehead, beginning to remove himself from her. “I wish you would have faith in me, trust that all will be well. I won’t let anything happen to you or the boy.”